


A Change Of Plan

by idiom



Series: Focus. Commitment. Sheer will. [2]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-26 07:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19763290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiom/pseuds/idiom
Summary: Santino D’Antonio arrived in New York City fully intent on forcing John’s hand against his sister and taking her seat at the High Table for himself. However, somewhere along the way there was a change of plan.If you don’t want to be stuck working under the Table and if even after getting a seat at the Table there’s still someone above you… you might as well consider setting a Table of your own.John had him convinced, now he just had to convince John.





	1. Charm

**Author's Note:**

> I showed up to John/Santino two years late, read all the fics and now I have to write my own.   
> This is basically just a long plotty excuse to write the ridiculous amount of smut that comes in the last chapter. The premise is basically what if after John said “No” Santino found another (debatably more/less explosive) way to persuade him. Things could have gone better for everyone involved, let’s be honest. No one has to die if we all fuck n’ get along. :P
> 
> Also you know me, I love putting bits of the character’s native languages in the dialogue. I put any translations side by side, a new style I learned from reading André Aciman. So yeah, just fyi people aren’t constantly repeating themselves. If you’re Italian feel free to send me corrections in the comments, please, per favore, non sono perfetta. :P
> 
> Beta read by: reitoei

—

The slim red book of a European passport landed on the custom officer’s desk. It had been tossed in front of her with the laissez-faire attitude of one who’d been through this whole rigmarole far too many times. With a bored sigh, the officer picked up the passport and gave it a long, leisurely once over. It was a slow day for border control in the private runway terminal at LaGuardia and she wasn’t above making a rich guy wait. 

His passport was interesting enough. He was Italian, traveling from Naples. His last few stamps included destinations like Morocco, Switzerland, Romania, Peru and a few other countries in South America. If there was a passport that could scream ‘organized crime’ any louder, she certainly hadn’t seen it.

“Alright, ask your questions.”

The officer’s eyes shifted from the passport up to the man before her. His green eyes were dull and tired even as they shifted narrowly into a deadpan glare, clearly growing impatient. 

She flipped back to the biodata page.

“Mister D’Antonio,” she drawled, seeing the name. Quickly, she went through the usual questioning finishing up with: “Anything to declare?” 

She asked that question, knowing two things: Yes, there were many things to declare, some of those things being at least a dozen sharp objects and loaded weapons on the nearby bodyguards alone. And: No, those things would not be declared.

The man just looked at her, his hooded eyes doing little to hide his exasperation. He was used to getting his way and getting it fast. He didn’t seem like the type who flew well in the confined space of an aircraft, even if said aircraft was a private jet. What was it, about eight to ten hours from Naples? 

“Nothing to declare,” he said, predictably.

“Right,” the officer drawled. She looked down at his biodata one more time before holding it up to compare the image. He’d had longer hair before… shame to chop off those curls for whatever trendy, asymmetrical look he was now sporting. 

“Are you here for business or pleasure, Mr. D’Antonio?”

“Pleasure. Always pleasure.” The Italian smiled, but it was a look that didn’t reach his jet-lagged eyes. His lips simply turned joylessly before his dour expression set right back into place.

“Uh huh,” the officer traced him from head to toe before the heavy stamp in her hand came down on one of the open pages. She flicked the book closed and handed it back to him.

“Welcome to New York. Do enjoy your stay.”

That cold smile of his briefly returned. 

“I’m sure I will.”

—

‘We should get some of those diplomatic passports,’ Ares signed once they were in the car and well on their way to the New York Continental. ‘Faster.’

Santino shot her a look because it didn’t really make sense to tell someone who didn’t speak to shut up. He was tired. The flight to New York always felt hours longer than it was.

As they drove steadily towards the island city, Santino rubbed his eyes and let out a jet-lagged groan. 

“Why did we come all the way across an ocean to this godforsaken place again?”

Ares cocked her head to one side. When he looked over, he saw her draw a curve with her pinky before holding up three fingers. 

‘J. W.’

“Of course,” Santino sighed, pressing his thumb and index finger into his brow. “It was a rhetorical question.”

‘You need to be careful with this plan… after what he did to the Tarasovs...’ Ares grit her teeth and clawed at her upper chest. ‘Savage.’

“It’s the boy’s fault,” Santino replied with a shrug. “The man wanted to retire and that idiot child just had to break into his house and kick his puppy. _Requiescat in pace_. Rest in peace.”

Ares wasn’t sure if he was mourning the Tarasov kid or the dog, but she had a pretty good guess. Santino had always been more of a dog person.

‘So… what's your plan?’

“Meet with my old friend. Collect on the favour I am owed. Simple.”

‘I know that.’ Ares’s hands moved with an irritated flick. ‘But what if John says no?’

“I bear his marker,” Santino drawled with a pointed look, reminding her of the obvious. “He can’t say no. Besides, why do you think we brought the grenade launcher?”

Ares sniggered, but pursed her lips soon after and signed, ‘Good idea?’

To blow up John Wick’s house if he decided not to honour his marker? Absolutely not. But Santino waved her off. “It doesn’t matter. It’s what needs to be done and he owes me a debt. If you were so worried, you really should have asked me these sorts of questions before we left Naples.”

‘Maybe there’s another way,’ Ares signed. ‘If you persuade him, maybe he can persuade her. No one has to die.’ 

Ares’ hopeful naivety in this situation was out of character and troubling. Santino sighed, knowing that everyone was probably thinking of the Tarasovs and how poorly this could go if they fucked it up. 

“John’s go-to method of persuasion is a violent one,” he told her. “If he convinces my sister to relinquish her seat on the High Table, it will be with blood not words.”

‘You were friends. They were friends too. He won’t want to kill her.´ Ares paused. ‘Besides, everyone will know it was you. Cassian will know it was you. He’s not a complete idiot.’ 

She huffed when Santino simply waved her off once more.

“John kills my dear sister. You kill him. It looks as though I’m avenging her. No loose ends.” 

Ares nodded, but again, pursed her lips. 

‘This is John Wick we’re talking about.’

“Then don’t fuck up. He’s not the indestructible god that people like to think he is,” Santino reminded her. He shuffled back in his seat crossing his arms over his chest. “He needed my help before... and besides, he’s getting old.”

Ares nodded her head back and forth in a suggestion of agreement. After a minute she raised a brow and asked: ‘Would you still…?’ 

Santino blinked slowly, staring at the explicit motion she was making with her hands. “Absolutely not,” he replied without hesitation. He turned from Ares then, effectively cutting off the conversation because he couldn’t watch that crude gesture she was still repeating with her peace fingers any longer. 

Ares tapped his arm, drawing his attention back to her to sign: ‘I would.’

Santino only glared in response, but she simply smirked and shrugged.

‘Think about what I said when you see him.’

“Which part?” Santino muttered to himself. Ares signed something provocative in response and he rolled his eyes to avoid looking at it. With a sigh, he turned back towards the window. The city lights that had been flashing on the horizon suddenly went dark as they descended into the Midtown Tunnel crossing out of Queens and onto the busy nightlife-filled streets of Manhattan.

—

The moon had painted the white walls of John Wick’s modern home with a dull blue light that evening. With a small army of personnel at his back, Santino stood on the doorstep and rang the bell. The lights were out inside the house, but from behind frosted glass he could just make out the dark contour of a man approaching. The door opened and the familiar face of the one Santino’s people called _lo spettro_ appeared from the darkness within.

John Wick was breathing hard; he was wide awake and wearing dusty odd-job clothes. Had he recently been exerting himself? He looked like he’d been doing some sort of renovation, but that was strange since it was nearly two in the morning. Though, Santino quickly realized the irony of this thought seeing as how he was standing on the man’s doorstep at the very same unreasonable hour. 

His eyes traveled up John’s body to his stoney face. There was a little bit of emotion there, concern. John knew.

Santino pulled himself back into the moment.

“ _Ciao, John._ Hello.”

“Santino…”

“ _Posso entrare?_ May I come in?”

“ _Certo_. Of course.”

The tension in the air spiked immediately. It was a strange mix of memories: the amicable past and the anxieties of the future all melded into one. Santino knew what John was thinking as soon as the man saw him. 

John’s mind was reeling, plotting out what to say, what to do. He knew why Santino was there. His eyes darted ever so briefly from the man at his door to the line of cars and security he’d brought along with him.

Still, there was a hint of fondness. Santino could see it in the arch of John’s brow. He’d always been able to read the man oh-so well. The way he moved, the way he spoke. Now, it was the way he said Santino’s name, making an effort to enunciate with the proper itallian elocution.

John even offered him _caffè_ , which made Santino briefly think he’d gone mad. It was the middle of the night, who the fuck is making espresso at two in the morning? Still, Santino humoured him, mostly because his out-of-practice Italian was charming. He was clearly trying his best to be a good host… despite the circumstances. 

He was a little hesitant to drink whatever the man considered _caffè_ in the middle of the night, but then he remembered one particular morning-after in Rome. Years back, naked in bed, still feeling it from the night before, John had made an especially nice milky espresso for him... it had been absolutely heavenly. Even now John’s familiar scent in the house mixed with the brewing coffee spilling from the kitchen was rousing Santino’s senses and bringing him back to that languid morning in bed so long ago.

John was, of course, playing it cool. He was as calm and collected as Santino remembered him to be. The blithe way he said: “Good to see you!” before leaving him in the front room was enough to throw Santino for a loop. He wondered for the briefest of seconds if the other man thought this was just a simple social call. 

No, John wasn’t stupid. Of course, he knew exactly why Santino had come. 

After giving a soft reply to John’s greeting, Santino wondered further into the house to distract himself. It was better not to think of the past now. Anything they’d had, it was long gone. 

Wandering into the living room, he took in the minimalist yet oh-so-domestic scattering of photographs that lined the shelves darting around. There was nothing of John’s old life here. It was actually quite nice. The photos were all softly lit, happy times, the remnants of a hobby John had taken up during his short-lived retirement. They were mostly of his wife, Helen. 

Santino was about to offer his condolences when a little bully dog came trotting into the room. It came up to him happily accepting him as he crouched over to pet its little head. He was too absorbed in the adorable creature to even notice John entering the room with two small cups in hand. 

Santino stood then, a little embarrassed to be caught fawning over a puppy in the middle of what was supposed to be quite a serious meeting.

“Listen, John,” he said, leaning in as soon as they were both seated at the table. “With all sincerity, I don’t wanna be here.”

It was strange to see something like desperation in John’s eyes, stranger still to hear him beg, beg for Santino to take it back. Take the marker back? How could one take back a favour already done? That’s what the marker represented, a favour for a favour, and only one half had been fulfilled. 

What torture was he causing now? Santino had only seen John like this once before and that was back when he’d given him the marker five years ago. It was no small thing and Santino, in that moment, was riled, especially when John finally slid the marker back towards him saying simply: 

“I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Santino actually laughed. How could a man as deep in the system as John Wick was, ask a favour, grant a marker to another man, give his bond, only to expect a blind eye to be turned when the time came for the due to be paid? 

Santino looked at John. Just looked at him… for a long while... before a heavy breath exited his lips. He wanted to say something, something that would bite into whatever John had become, claw through that man and get to the one he needed underneath. 

John Wick... the man Santino wanted to pull to the surface was still in there, about one hundred dead Tarasov mobsters could attest to that.

Still, those hostile words didn’t come out as they should have. Satino simply got up and allowed himself to be escorted to the front door. As he left he cast John one last glance, before his gaze shifted back into the space in which the man inhabited.

“You have a beautiful home, John,” was all he said in parting. Kind words, meant to be taken as a threat. He left and the door closed behind him. A darkness clouded his features as he walked into blaring headlights, towards where Ares was waiting next to one of cars.

‘No luck?’ she signed. 

Santino didn’t reply. He walked past her, around to the trunk. 

The grenade launcher was hefty and unwieldy, but Santino was adept at dealing with such things. With the weapon over one shoulder, he stared down the sight, aiming to destroy John’s beautiful home. 

Already, Santino was picturing the explosion. If he hit the front doorway, the impact would give John a shock, but he’d survive and have enough time to get out before he hit the rest of the house. The dog would probably survive too… 

Probably...

Santino hesitated.

Then, with a sigh, he lowered the launcher. With quick fingers, he began disassembling the massive weapon, placing each piece carefully back into its crate. He pulled the cover down over the crate before shutting the trunk of the car with far more force than was necessary.

“ _Andiamo_. Let’s go.”

Ares was watching him closely, leaning over the top of the car. 

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

“Change of plan.”

—

It was more of a change of heart. The plan was still the same. However, the charm offensive Santino had come up with was definitely going to be a long process. With the previous tactic, John would have caved in a day, two tops. With the new plan, Santino wasn’t even sure John would ever come around, but ‘lo spettro’ could be damn well sure Santino would be in his face until he did.

In the meantime, Gianna could have her little party. She was planning a ridiculous event in Roma that, in Santino’s opinion, was more of a rave than an inauguration... coronation... whatever it was. Older she may be, but Santino liked to think of himself as more mature and if not that at least he had more class. Once John convinced her to give up her seat, he would have his coronation in the museum, surrounded by his father's collection... to honour the old man of course, not to show off his newly inherited wealth comprising of priceless works of art and some of Italy’s most valuable pieces of marble. 

The plan that Santino hoped would get him there started to unfold the very next morning. He left the Continental without any of the security detail from the night before and had a driver take him back to John’s home. The mood was completely different in the light of the day. 

Alone, he walked right up to the door and rang the bell.

It took longer than it should have, but eventually John opened the door. He looked about as destroyed as Santino had planned to leave his house. There were dark circles under his black eyes and he was still wearing the rugged shirt and jeans he’d been working in the night before. 

As soon as he saw Santino, John let out a heavy sigh. The Italian was looking fresh as a fucking daisy after a secure night’s sleep in the Continental. It was entirely unfair.

“ _Buongiorno_ , John. Good morning, John.” Santino all but purred, already dialing up the charm. “Did you not sleep well?”

“What is this, Santino?” John drawled, his voice muted from lack of sleep. 

Santino cocked his head to one side. John was looking right at him, but it was easy to see that the man was scoping out everything in his peripheral. Without breaking eye contact, even for a second, he was looking around for whoever he thought Santino had lying in wait, trying to get the drop on him.

“You were much less paranoid yesterday. More welcoming.” Santino looked past John as the tell tale jingling of his little bully dog’s tags and the tap tap of her paws sounded down the hall. 

She pushed her flat muzzle between John’s leg and the door to get a better look at Santino. With excited eyes, she gazed up at him and her tongue flopped out of her mouth. 

Santino grinned right back at her. “At least someone’s happy to see me again! You are, aren’t you!” 

John rubbed his brow. “Last night you just... left.”

“Yes…” Santino said, from where he was now crouched in front of John. He looked up, suddenly coming off very innocent down their, patting the little dog on the head. 

“What did you expect I was going to do?” 

John eyed him warily, but a moment later he stepped aside, opening the door fully. The dog wiggled through, happily rubbing herself closer to Santino. Her entire body shook with excitement. 

“ _Caffè_? Coffee?” With some of the tension abated, John was again trying his best to be a good host, because of rather than in spite of the company this time. 

Santino hummed happily at the thought of a well brewed cup of espresso when it was meant to be served… in the morning. 

“ _Grazie._ Thank you,” he replied. 

John went into the kitchen, leaving him with the bully dog. She was much more fun than John was being so Santino didn’t really mind. 

He went into the front room with the animal, sitting at the small dining table while she happily followed to take in the new face in her home. With a shrug, Santino let the coat over his shoulders fall onto the back of the chair. He then patted his thighs.

“ _Vieni qui!_ Come here!” 

The little dog trodded over, confused but excited by his exuberant voice. The bully stopped in front of Santino, looking up at him with the most irresistible eyes.

Santino cheered and reached out a hand. “ _Benissimo!_ _Qua la zampa!_ Well done! Shake!”

The dog looked at his hand, cocking her head this way and that. Santino said it again, but she only nudged his fingers with her wet little nose before licking them in search of a treat.

“She doesn’t speak Italian.”

Santino sat upright as John came into the room with two cups of coffee. Embarrassed at having been caught a second time playing with the little dog, he glared at the man.

“Are you mocking me, John?”

“No,” John replied, deadpan. “Just letting you know.” He set the coffee down and sat across from Santino, mirroring their positions from the night before. He watched Santino bend down, patting the dog’s head and whispering to her in Italian once more before sitting up. 

Facing him at the table, Santino looked just as he had the night before, but in the morning light, all of the ominous shadows that had been cast over his features were now soft.

“You’ve always been better with dogs than I am,” John noted.

Santino sipped his coffee without breaking eye contact.

“Yes. You know, I always wanted a puppy. Father wouldn’t allow it.”

“I know,” John replied, stating the fact without a hint of what you’d call empathy… or was it sympathy. Whatever it was, John was terrible at expressing it.

Santino sighed, looking out the window. “I left our meeting yesterday extremely unsatisfied.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed John tense up as he continued. “I don’t want to repeat that conversation, because I sense I won’t get any further now than I did then.”

“Santino,” John sighed. “I’m sorry, I just can’t—”

Santino turned, cutting him off with a raised hand. “You can. That much is obvious from the way you handled things with the Tarasovs,” he snapped before calmly clarifying, “The reality is, you don’t want to.”

John looked down at the cup in his hands, the tiny piece of ceramic looking even tinier with the large man looming over it. His shoulders rounded down in a way that reminded Santino of a kicked puppy.

Santino rolled his eyes, letting out a sigh. “You reaction, though stupid, was not unexpected. You wouldn’t like what I want from you, John. I would have had to burn your house to the ground for you to agree to it. I know this.” 

John looked up at him, utterly confused. He’d done so much, killed so many. It had been his purpose in life for so long, what he’d been raised to do ever since he was picked up off the streets as a child. What could possibly be so heinous? 

Santino sucked in a breath.“I wanted you to kill my sister.”

“Why?”

“There are twelve seats on the High Table...”

John leaned back in his chair and looked away. He knew of the High Table, everyone in their world did. They were the puppet masters, the ones pulling their strings, opening accounts and calling in the contracts. The High Table was populated with overseers and everyone worked under the Table. Santino’s family held one of those seats, now willed from the father to his eldest daughter.

“I can’t help but wonder... what I might accomplish in her stead.”

John frowned at that. “What exactly? What are you trying to accomplish?”

Santino blinked, looking away from the scene outside the window for the first time in a long while. He stared into John’s dark, questioning eyes. 

“With the kind of power one seated on the High Table possesses? Anything. Everything.”

John simply shook his head. “That kind of power is a red herring.”

“What has given you reason to think that?” Santino asked. He was genuinely curious. The High Table represented absolute power in their world. For a man like John to consider them something other than what they purported to be, to suggest there was a different trail to follow, well, it gave Santino a reason for pause.

“They’re not what everyone thinks,” John uttered, his hands clenched into fists. “They’re... easily manipulated. By the outside world. By each other. There is one above the table. One that I know of. Maybe there are others above him as well. The High Table has manufactured rules and dogma, but at any moment these people have the power to take it all away. It wouldn’t matter if you were on the Table or not, if you broke the rules or not. If you’re working in a system, there will always be someone just waiting to reengineer it around you.”

Santino stared. John Wick was a man of few words, but when he did speak, he said exactly what he truly believed needed to be heard. No more. No less. Had he been Italian, he would have made an excellent consigliere, Santino’s father had always said so. But that was all in the past...

“Alright, John,” he drawled. “So what do you propose?”

There was silence for a while. John folded his hands on the table, staring down at them. His brow creased, deepening into dark lines as he thought carefully. 

“You can find ways to accomplish everything you want without a seat at the Table. Leave the old business to Gianna and the rest of them.” He looked up at Santino. “You’re in the new world now, you could start by taking New York.”

“New York…” Santino huffed, “You know, we used to run these streets. Our people had all kinds of networks set up here. Now it’s just a fucking mob, literally. All of these dysfunctional families have thrown away their ties to Italy.”

“Then take it back from them,” John interrupted. “Even with a seat on the High Table, you still won’t have New York. Territory is valuable, you don’t want to be arguing with twelve others over how to split it up, do you?”

Santino raised his brow, considering this. It wouldn’t be too difficult: realign some lost loyalties, take out a few of the American Mafia’s bosses, instate himself as leader, then take on the other gangs. With the manpower Santino had at his disposal, they’d be able to annex most of the island in a few months, the state in a year, plus New Jersey if they wanted to dip their toes into that mess.

“You know…” Santino murmured as he started coming around to the idea, “I wanted a seat at the Table because am sick of cowering under it.”

“So set your own table.” John leaned forward. “There’s always gonna be someone else at theirs. Or someone underneath it trying to pull you down. Just look at you and Gianna.”

For a man who so desperately wanted to be out of the business, John was a master of it. His words of wisdom had always vaguely irritated Santino. John Wick was supposed to be an unstable madman, best when served lethal, but in reality the man was a strategic mastermind. It was easy to forget that it took a certain level of genius to stay alive in this business as long as he had.

“Perhaps you’re right. But I want the High Table to know. I will not be beneath them.” He needed his sister to know. She might have been the oldest, the one to inherit the seat, the legacy, the criminal empire... but he had John Wick. “You are my chance, John. My symbol. If they think you are there in the shadows, no one would dare threaten me. They know they don’t stand a chance against _lo spettro_ , the ghost.” 

Santino was grinning. With the boogeyman who destroyed the entire Tarasov Mob at his side, he’d be untouchable, far beyond even the High Table’s extended reach.

John’s brow furrowed, but the creases cleared away as he let out a sigh. He shook his head solemnly. The criminal mastermind faded behind a cloud of too-human uncertainty. 

“I told you, I’m not that guy anymore,” he muttered. He stared down at his coffee and was about to take a sip for a distraction, but it was getting cold, undrinkable. Setting the cup aside, John exhaled. “Before you came to me last night... I buried that life... for good this time.”

Santino smirked behind a surreptitiously placed hand. He wanted to make a joke about how things buried could always be dug up again, but considering the whole situation with the dead wife and dog, he kept it to himself. Still, he couldn’t help an amused huff. 

“Alright, but no one else has to know that. After what you did… Everyone thinks you’re back, John.”

John didn’t reply, but he leaned forward ever so slightly. Santino took that as his cue to go on.

“I want you to come with me to the opening of the new exhibit at my museum.” 

“Why?” John asked in the exact same tone as when he’d asked Santino why he wanted to kill his sister, as if there was any kind of equivalence in the confusion he should have between the two. 

Santino rolled his eyes. “You know why. People will talk.”

“People are already talking.”

With a wave of one hand, Santino brushed that off. “Not about your puppy and the Tarasov brat. People will talk about us.” Elbow on the table, Santino flicked a long finger suggestively back and forth between the two of them. “They will talk about what used to be… what might be again… You left us for the Russians way back when, and now the Russians are no more. ”

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Santino…”

“John,” he softly cut the other man off before he could protest. John clearly didn’t want anything to do with their world or anyone in it, marker or no marker. Santino had to convince him. “Take this deal. Put on a show. You won’t have to kill anyone and your marker will be considered honoured.”

Again, Santino took the silver disc from where it was sitting in his vest pocket over his heart. With a gentle push, he slid it across the table. 

John stared at the marker, knowing that his blood was inside, that he did owe Santino a debt. This was probably the best deal he was going to get.

“Alright… I’ll do it.”

“How exciting,” Santino breathed with a wide grin.

John stared at Santino like he was a madman, then, with a deep breath, he pushed his chair back and stood. “One day isn’t convincing. I’ll come back with you now... to the Continental.”

“What?” That was unexpected to say the least. “That’s unnecessary. Everyone will see you at the party. Feel free to stay in your… mausoleum,” Santino muttered, waving about the lavish modern space John occupied like the ghost that he was.

John wasn’t listening at that point. His mind was already set, focused on how best to accomplish the task at hand. He walked out of the front room, heading up the stairs to what Santino presumed was his bedroom. 

Not wanting to be left alone, Santino picked up his coffee and followed after him. 

By the time he arrived, John was already stripping off his shirt, exposing the muscular line of his tattooed back. 

With hooded eyes, Santino watched from the doorway, taking a sip of his coffee. John’s body was covered with fresh red and purple bruises. When he turned towards the doorway, Santino could see a few places where he’d been… Stabbed? Shot? Sometimes it was hard to tell when the wound had been stitched and unstitched and never got time to settle. 

“Santino…”

“What?” he replied, drawing his eyes from John’s torso back up to his almost always displeased looking face. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

John eyed him wearily, but didn’t ask him to leave. He pulled on a shirt, covering his naked torso.

“That was ten years ago,” he muttered as he wrapped a tie around his neck.

“Seven, but who’s counting?” Santino replied with a characteristic nonchalance as he leaned against the doorframe. His eyes drifted from John looking around his room. He took in the fact that his wife’s things were still here and there. Nothing had been packed up yet, maybe it never would. On the bedside table there was a bracelet and next to it a tiny dog collar.

Santino took another sip of coffee as he stared at the objects. 

“I never really saw you as a sentimental man, John.”

“You never really saw me,” John retorted without even looking up. He pulled on the rest of his typical funeral suit and turned to Santino. “I’m not that guy.”

Santino wasn’t sure whether he should be offended by that. Because it was true. He’d only ever known ‘that guy’. John Wick. In their business he was little more than a myth, a killer, the best. He was so good at what he did back then. You’d never have suspected he’d be the type to drop everything, especially not to do something so utterly domestic as get married. 

“I suppose you’re right,” was Santino’s humble reply. He wasn’t usually so self-effacing, but his show of humility surprised John and in the moment that was all that mattered.

Charm can get you everywhere, even in a world of coins and blood-debt markers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos give John’s bully dog nice pets :D   
> Your comments enjoy a nice cup of caffè c[__]


	2. The Gala

—

They arrived at the Continental around lunch. Santino sauntered through the doors, unable to hide his smirk. At his side, John Wick was dressed head to toe in his usual jet black suit. His reappearance in the Continental was immediately drawing attention, especially alongside Santino. A dozen sets of eyes in the lobby looked up, before looking away, making a show of their piqued disinterest while tapping messages into their Nokia phones. John Wick looked every bit the reaper he was purported to be and the grapevine was already starting to snake its way through the building.

‘What the fuck,’ Ares signed as she jumped up out of her seat. She’d been waiting for Santino in the lobby so she could ream him out for leaving the Continental alone as soon as returned safe. ‘You brought him here?’

‘Good to see you too,’ John signed back in a clipped manner.

“Ignore her,” Santino cut in as they approached the front desk. 

Moving between Santino and John, Ares stepped into line with her boss.

“I’ll explain later,” Santino told her.

‘So… the charm offensive worked?’ she signed as close to her body as possible with her back to John. ‘Did you two—?’

Santino clasped a hand over her peace fingers. “You know you can’t whisper, please don’t try,” he all-but growled.

Ares jerked her hands out of his grip and gestured ‘Ok,’ before flipping her hand to sign ‘Asshole.’

Charon looked up at the familiar faces as they approached. His expression ever so slightly softened as his gaze landed on John. 

“Mister Wick, a pleasure to have you back with us again so soon, sir.”

John nodded politely while Santino rolled his eyes at the subtle and yet extremely obvious favoritism John received from the concierge. With a sigh, he pulled out a single coin and pushed it across the counter only to be stopped.

John placed his palm over top of Santino’s hand, curling his fingers in a strangely too-gentle manner around his. It was a move that drew many wide eyes, including Santino’s. He didn’t move his hand from where it now lay beneath John’s, he simply looked from it up towards the man.

“ _Scusami?_ Excuse me?”

“I can pay,” John protested quietly. “I have plenty of coin.”

“No. Allow me, John. I insist.” Santino huffed. He didn’t want to look like someone who needed the help to pay their own way. There was a moment’s hesitation, but eventually John lifted his hand. 

Clearing his throat, Santino requested another room. 

“Preferably near the others.” 

“Certainly, sir.” Charon took the coin and replaced it with a room key. They didn’t allow dogs, obviously, so after another quick exchange John left his puppy at the front desk. The concierge was only too happy to take care of her, though Santino was disappointed she wasn’t allowed up in the rooms. They should have snuck the adorable bully in while Charon was on his lunch break… then again, the ever present concierge never seemed to abandon his post.

“Lunch has just started. Three courses are being served in the dining room,” Charon told them, looking up from where he’d leaned over slightly to pat the dogs head. “The manager, I’m sure, would be happy to discuss any… finalization you require.”

John frowned, but Santino caught on fast. The marker, of course. The concierge was clearly privy to the high profile deal, even though it had been made years and years back. 

“Thank you,” Santino said before leading the way towards the dining room. Ares was hot on his trail, but John was a little more hesitant.

“Are you sure you want to finalize the marker before the opening?” John wondered.

“I just want lunch, John. I’m starving,” Sanito bit out. 

‘Same,’ Ares signed. 

The three of them grabbed a table in the luxurious dining room. They ordered off the day’s set menu and the food arrived just a few minutes later followed quickly by a visit from the manager.

Winston entered, standing at the top of the stairs, scoping out the room with pursed lips. His eyes eventually landed on their table and a strange sort of smile spread over his lips. He had clearly come just for them. 

“Jonathan! A pleasure to see you again,” he said before eyeing the man across from John with a little less pleasure. “I take it he’s here as your guest, Mister D’Antonio?” 

“We have some unfinished business,” John replied before Santino could speak. He looked across to the other man who simply smiled back.

“As he says, business.” 

“Ah,” Winston breathed. His gaze shifted between the two of them. “Well as long as you both remember to follow Continental rules…”

“Of course,” Santino said with his most charming smile. “Only pleasantries for now. Business will come later. Speaking of which, is the tailor in?”

“Of course!”

“Good, if you could rush an order, John will be needing a suit for tomorrow night.”

Winston raised a brow. “I’ll see what I can do. Come by for a fitting after you’ve finished your lunch. For now, _buon appetito_.”

As soon as the manager was gone, Santino scoffed. 

“Everyone just loves you here, don’t they?” he snapped.

‘Yeah. Am I invisible?’ Ares signed with a sneer that wrinkled her nose. 

John simply shrugged. He’d been working in New York for years before his time in Italy with D’Antonio’s. And after his contract ended, he’d immediately returned to New York. It was his homebase and he wasn’t unaware of his status in their world.

“I’ve just been around a lot over the years,” he muttered. “People know me.”

Ares raised a brow and shared a gaze with her boss. 

‘No shit.’

—

The tailor’s studio in the New York Continental had a particularly british style to it. John stood on a small raised platform surrounded by mirrors on one side and oak paneling all around. The racks built into the walls were lined with made-to-measure suits just waiting to be cut into a more bespoke fit. The light fabrics Santino was used to seeing at the Italian tailor’s in Rome were replaced with thicker materials, even — god forbid — tweed.

“Make sure you give him an Italian cut,” Santino said as he inspected the fabrics that were on offer. “As you can see he is very tall.”

Winston and the tailor were standing near the oak framed mirrors on either side of John. They both stared deadpan at Santino before turning to look up at John, wanting to hear his opinion on the matter.

“Sure.” Was the only reply the got out of him. John wasn’t really someone who had… opinions about things like that. As long as it was tactical, he was good to go.

“That awful American style you all tend to wear does nothing for him.” Santino went on, not seeing the clearly offended gape he was getting from both the tailor and Winston. “Sack suits, they are called? Good name. They look like sacks.”

The manager sucked in a breath, changing the subject before his long suffering tailor decided to quit after forty years of good service. “Would you like anything to drink, Mister D’Antonio? Prosecco? Martini? Wine?”

“Red, _grazie,_ thank you.” 

Winston forced a smile. Anything to get out of that room for a minute. He made to leave, but remembered John just as he was at the door.

“Oh, forgive me. Anything for you, Jonathan?” he asked.

John would have shrugged, but the tailor was running measuring tape across his chest and shoulders. The man now needed to take more measurements if they were going with an italian fit.

“I’m good,” he said.

Winston turned back to Santino then and smiled. “One house red coming up.”

Santino approached John after Winston left, hovering just outside the space the tailor needed to work with his hands tucked neatly into his pockets. He eyed John’s figure, watching as he was measured with interest.

“Winston seems unnerved,” Santino whispered once the manager was definitely out of earshot. 

John shifted his gaze, trying to look at Santino without turning away from the tailor. “When he gave me the marker, I never told him what it was for.”

“Ah, I see.” Santino drawled. It was no secret that the manager of the New York Continental didn’t like him very much. Winston was a traditionalist, and old man set in his ways; he didn’t like how Santino did things. And Winston liked John, but he also knew what he was, so it was no wonder the old man was feeling a bit perturbed seeing them together.

“Also… he calls you Jonathan. Why? Your name is not Jonathan.”

The measuring tape had moved around his waist, so John did shrug this time.

“It’s not, no.” 

“So… you just don’t care? Or has it been so long that you cannot correct him now?”

John’s eyes caught Santino’s in the mirror. He didn’t answer because he wasn’t really sure if he cared or not. Maybe both? Maybe neither? At this point he didn’t really care what people thought his name was.

Santino hummed.

The tailor stepped away for a moment and Santino took his place, standing practically chest to chest with John. He was on a raised platform for the fitting and, tall though he normally was, Santino now had to crane his head back to look up at him.

“This fit will suit you much better, in my opinion,” he noted, already seeing the difference with the pinning the tailor had started.

“A tighter suit won’t exactly be tactical,” John pointed out.

“I suppose,” Santino drawled, but he wasn’t about to change his mind. 

“John… Is it strange being back here? In this position?” 

The corner of John’s lip twitched up ever so slightly. 

“I might actually miss going to see the sommelier.”

Santino laughed. The expression softened, died down and he bit his lip. He eyed John up and down. The tailor had barely started his work, but already the suit was pinned and cinched in a much more flattering shape. Santino couldn’t help himself. He lifted his hands to straighten the lapels, allowing the backs of his fingers to press into the tight muscle rippling beneath the fabric.

“Santino…”

“Hm?” Santino hummed. He flipped his palms, hands slowly sliding down John’s chest before dropping away.

“ _Spiacente, John_. Sorry.”

John didn’t say anything else, but his eyes were on Santino. He clearly didn’t believe his apology was genuine, and it wasn’t so good for him. The usual chill in his gaze was there, but something behind it was glowing. A little ember waiting to be stoked into a flame.

With a sly smile, Santino backed away when he heard the door open and close again. Winston had returned with a glass of red from the bar. 

“For our most valued guest,” the manager all-but purred as he handed the delicate stem over.

Santino smiled, a simpering thing that died as soon as Winston turned away. With his wine in hand, he walked away from them, opting to sit and wait on the plush leather sofa in the corner. He was partially separated from them now, but he could still see John and glimpses of Winston and the tailor as they moved around him. The manager caught his eye, then he stepped seemingly purposefully out of view between John and a wood divider.

Sipping his wine, Santino stared on with narrow eyes. He tried to hear the man’s whispers, but to no avail.

“What the hell were you thinking, giving a marker to a man like Santino D'Antonio?” Winston hissed as he positioned his body behind John’s broad form, out of said Italian’s line of sight. “There are two rules, Jonathan…”

“I know,” John cut him off. “I said no to him at first, but apparently I’m not allowed to retire twice.”

Winston huffed out an unamused laugh. “Well, you’re lucky to be standing here then aren’t you. If he’d come to me I would have had no choice but to declare you excommunicado on the spot. And if he opened a contract, you’d have nowhere to run.” The old man shook a finger. “Every marker must be honored, Jonathan.”

John simply sighed then, feeling no need to repeat himself. 

“I’m here, aren’t I.”

“What does he want you to do?”

“Escort him to… a gala. There’s a new exhibit opening at his museum.”

Winston stepped out from behind John, smiling as he peered over at Santino. The man was glaring back at him, his eyes narrow as daggers. Winston moved back behind his human shield.

“Just one night? Protection work?”

John nodded.

“That can’t possibly be all…”

“Well, it is.” John didn’t feel the need to elaborate by telling Winston about Santino’s previous plan, the one that involved his sister and quite the opposite of protection work. Besides, that plan was tangled up with a whole other level of rules that Santino had been planning to break. This was the kind of thing the Italians had a code of silence for.

Winston hummed. Looking past John for a moment, he smirked towards Santino though he knew the other man still couldn’t see him.

“Well, it sounds like it’s going to be one hell of a party.”

—

It was getting late. They had dinner after the fitting. A quiet affair. Santino’s eyes were on John the entire time, his gaze heavy.

Santino finally snapped when they got up to their rooms. With muttered parting words, John slipped his key into the door. He entered and was about to close it when the smooth edge of Santino’s Oxford caught the middle of the door.

“What did Winston say to you?” he demanded.

John frowned. However, it took one sharp look from Santino for him to sigh and open the door. He left it open and walked further into the sitting area, not caring if Santino followed him or not. If he wanted to ask his questions, he could do it while John was sitting down with a glass of bourbon.

He dropped heavily onto the sofa and, as expected, Santino followed him into his room, closing the door briskly behind him.

“Do you think I’m being paranoid, John?” Santino asked.

“No.” It was an honest answer. Winston had been in his ear the entire fitting whispering about Santino. Suspicion was perfectly rational. 

“ _Bene_. Good,” Santino drawled. He walked over, coming to a pause between John’s legs. The man relaxed back, looking up at him with that glassy unreadable stare of his. “Now tell me what he said to you.” 

“He told me I should never have given you my marker in the first place. That I’m lucky you didn’t open a contract on me or have me killed for not honoring it when you first asked last night.”

“The thought did cross my mind, I’ll admit,” Santino murmured. He was still staring at John, waiting for more. “Is that all?”

“I told him about the gala, how that’ll settle the debt.” John was silent for a thoughtful moment before finishing his testimony by saying, “I didn’t mention Gianna.”

For a long while, Santino simply stared down at him. Then, he stepped back, settling with effortless grace into the chair across from John.

“Good. We can trust each other.”

With that seemingly settled, John leaned over and poured them both a drink.

Santino didn’t usually drink bourbon, but it had been a long day and he wasn’t about to object. John leaned over the space between them, easily stretching across to hand him the glass.

“ _Cin cin._ Cheers.” John raised his glass and knocked it back.

Santino watched him before taking a sip himself. He held his drink close, one long finger tracing the elegant crystal rim of the Continental tableware.

“You know, John, when you gave me your marker… you never did tell me why you wanted to retire. Besides your wife, obviously. But there had to be more to it than that.”

John sighed into his glass. Staring into the amber liquid, he shrugged. 

“I didn’t want to live in this world anymore.”

The honest answer was surprisingly greeted by a single harsh laugh. “Oh, dear, John,” Santino chuckled. “I know I was a ruthless lover but I didn’t know being with me made you suicidal.”

“Santino…”

“I’m sorry, you were being serious,” Santino said, though he was still smiling around the rim of his glass.

Long before Helen, their relationship had ended abruptly, but there was no big fight, no break up. Then again, it hadn’t really been much of a relationship in the first place. People in their line of work didn’t have real relationships. They had vague affairs that were just distant enough not to become a liability.

At the time, about a decade back, Santino’s father demanded he and his sister keep their own personal guards after yet another assassination attempt. John and Cassian had been the best, and the D'Antonios could afford the best. Gianna had immediately taken to Cassian while Santino, at the time, felt like he’s been left stuck with the infamously dour John Wick.

But that was only how it started. When you’re forced to spend so much time with someone, either you start to hate them or they grow on you and... other feelings start to develop. In Santino’s case, he’d been young and very much delighted by how many hearts John stopped for him over the course of his contract. It was a strange seduction, but he’d eventually convinced John to slip into his bed one night.

It had lasted a couple exciting years, but John was freelance. He was never initiated; Santino was sure his father would have tried, but John wasn’t italian. So, when his contract came to an end and a big job with an even bigger payout came up in New York, John decided to take the work. He left.  
Santino visited him in New York once or twice, but it quickly became an inconvenience as the D’Antonios didn’t have much business in the state. Then John started working for the Russians and they stopped speaking all together.

So when John came to him two years later, Santino had wondered at first if that little flame from their past together would be rekindled, but then John gave him the marker and told him of the Tarasovs… his want to retire… his impossible task… his fiancé. 

Despite his disappointment, Santino had agreed to help, naturally. What else were old friends for. He’d never intended to collect on the debt. It was only when the news reached him all the way in Naples about the incident with the Tarasov brat that he realized John was an ace he’d allowed to get lost up his sleeve. 

“I realized I didn’t want to be that guy anymore,” John went on, tearing Santino from his thoughts of the past.

“John Wick?”

The silence that filled the room as he said it was palpable. 

“So you would never even consider coming back?” Santino asked, before tilting his head and adding, “Again.”

John looked at him, his eyes hard as slate. “That was personal. And this is just business.”

“Ah, John. You wound me,” Santino said in a teasing tone. He crossed one leg over the other, allowing the tip of his shoe to brush along John’s knee and ever so slightly along his inseam. “Is that really all this is?”

John finished his drink and set the glass down. He stood slowly, his body clearly still strained from the week he’d had. Without looking back, he turned and headed to the bathroom.

“ _Buonasera, Santino._ Good evening,” he muttered.

The door closed and a moment later the shower started running.

Santino smiled to himself. He finished his drink, but did not overstay his welcome.

It was a short walk across the hall to his own room. His suite was in the corner, surrounded on all sides with a view of the city. It was much more elaborate than the room John had been given, but Santino supposed that’s what slipping the concierge an extra coin could get you, even if you weren’t their favourite.

He’d just undressed and settled into bed when his phone started to vibrate. He groaned, picking it up before the incessant rattling could send it tipping off the edge of the bedside table.

“ _Pronto…_ Yes _..._ ” he muttered sleepily into the receiver. 

“Santino…” His sister’s voice was filled with a soft airness that immediately pierced through his jetlag.

“Gianna,” he replied slowly. It was nearly midnight in New York, so the sun must have barely come up where she was. Most would assume a check in from the family to be a good thing… but they weren’t that type of family.

“I was just calling to make sure you’re alright, _bambino_ ,” She purred. 

Santino rolled his eyes at his sister's patronising little pet name for him. 

“My people tell me you didn’t attend the party.”

“I’m sorry.” Santino spoke slowly, trying to come up with an excuse. “I took a holiday. I thought I’d mentioned.”

“New York?” She asked it like a question, but it wasn’t a question. She knew. 

“Yes. Business holiday. I’m opening the new exhibition of father’s collection at the museum. You remember.”

“ _Certo_ , of course,” Gianna drawled clearly moving to get to the point. “Are you visiting any old friends while you’re there? Perhaps some who’ve been… away for quite some time?”

Santino didn’t bother trying to lie. 

“Yes, actually. I’ve gotten back in touch with John Wick.” He didn’t need to say the man’s full name, but there was something about his sister’s silence on the other end of the line that told him it hit her just right when he did. “He’s rather kindly agree to escort me to the opening gala.”

The silence on Gianna’s end of the line went on far too long. It was ringing in Santino’s ear. He could hear his sister processing that information, deciding her next move. This was just another round of the chess game they’d been playing their entire lives. 

“I see,” Gianna purred after a long while. “Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I’m very busy with my new position and all that entails... Do have fun, _bambino_.”

“I’m sure I will.” Santino managed to let the tone of a false smile carry over the phone. 

“And send John my regards. _Ciao_. Bye.”

“Of course, Gianna. _Ciao_. Bye.”

With that he ended the call. With his phone still in hand, he pressed his fist to his chest. Sinking into the pillows, he stared up at the ceiling with cool, unblinking eyes. 

He would not be falling asleep anytime soon.

—

The turnaround time on John’s suit was impeccable. By the next evening, they were in full formal attire on the drive to the museum. John sat beside Santino in the back seat. He was wearing his new suit, looking suave and well groomed with his oft unruly black hair combed back. Santino couldn’t help but stare. 

John was focused, looking forward with military intensity. His back was straight. His hands were gripping his knees. He had his current task on his mind and, by all appearances, nothing else.

“You’re not killing anyone tonight, remember,” Santino teased, his voice finally breaking the man’s stony mask.

John frowned and looked over at him briefly before turning away.

“I know,” he uttered.

Santino raised a brow.

They arrived and Santino stepped out onto a red carpet. The whole scene was terribly cliche and even more ostentatious. There were onlookers and cameras flashing. It was a purposefully extravagant event worthy of the New York museum that was housing it. Obviously, Santino was host and guest of honor being that it was his museum and his father’s collection on display, but that didn’t mean he’d done any of the organization. 

Why would he? That was what he paid other people to do.

Santino smiled graciously to some of the onlookers before turning to wait for John. As soon as the man stepped forward, there was a strange buzz. Some were confused, others, the ones from their world, were surprised.

Shock and awe: those were Santino’s goals and, as expected, wide eyes and double takes were happening all the way up the red carpet and into the decorated lobby. Santino’s entrance drew a polite round of applause. The sound started in a wave. Those close to the front doors saw him first. It rolled through the crowd followed by a second more hushed wave of sound.

“And the talk begins,” Santino whispered to John, smirking up at the man who simply remained his usual statuesque self. John had been many things over his years, his work as a fixer had given him many skills. Tonight, since he’d made his ill-timed vow to stop killing, he was simply playing the bodyguard.

“I was hoping you’d have a drink and loosen up a little tonight,” Santino complained as the man remained stiff at his side. The deal clearly hadn’t been clear enough. Santino wanted John to escort him, but of course, John was too used to playing his protector. It had been a long time, but the instinct was still there.

John looked at Santino briefly, his eyes darkening before going back to scanning the room. 

“I can’t do both. I’ll be keeping an eye on the perimeter if you need me.”

“Of course you will,” Santino sighed. “Well, I need to talk to my guests. Entertain yourself... however.”

He gave John a pat on the arm before turning away.

Though John wasn’t exactly playing the game Santino wanted him to play, Santino was pleased to hear the whispers as he made his way through the crowds. Most of his esteemed guests were an eclectic mix of crime lords and artisans. The crime lords were just the types who’d be insulted not to be invited to a party. Santino knew this which made the gala the perfect opportunity to show that he had John by his side. It was only temporary of course… but no one else needed to know that. 

It was the artisans and patrons that Santino enjoyed the most. They were all apart from their world. They wanted to talk about the paintings and sculptures. While Santino did enjoy taking in his father’s collection, he saw it as little more than paint on canvas. He didn’t truly care about the long dead artists or the craft and he certainly didn’t see much point in spending your days on painting things when a photograph is just as good if not better... but these patrons of the arts were so invested… millions of dollars invested.

—

John watched Santino in the crowd, pushing down a strange burn in his chest when a beautiful young socialite approached the Italian among the art connoisseurs. They greeted each other, touching cheeks as they kissed one side than the other. She touched his hand as she spoke and he laughed at something she said. 

John frowned, wondering if he could cut between them and call it security. 

He went back to walking about and scanning the room… and that was when he noticed a familiar face.

Cassian. The last time they’d seen each other was in Naples when they were both still working for the S’Antonios. John had left at the end of his contract, but Cassian was still on Gianna’s payroll.

The man was a long way from his ward. 

Cassian stood in a secluded corner, watching Santino, but his eyes evenly swapped to check John’s position every other minute. Between those minutes, John ghosted over to his side.

“Cassian...”

The other man startled, but did a damn good job of hiding it. After the initial shock he looked over casually.

“John,” he replied, raising his drink to his lips without breaking eye contact. John stared right back. Neither of them blinking.

“You working?” John asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good night?”

Cassian raised a brow, his eyes shifting back towards Santino.

“We’ll see.”

John’s eyes grew dark.

But then Cassian chuckled. “Relax.” He huffed. “I’m not obliged to tell you this, but you can consider it a professional courtesy.”

John stared at him with a deadpan expression that simply read: go on.

“I’m only here to watch.” Cassian gestured around the exhibition room with the tall glass of gin he was nursing. “We wanna see what comes of this whole charade. Gianna hasn’t ordered a hit on her baby brother.” The words ‘not yet’ we’re left unsaid but John could feel them lingering between the lines.

“Sure.”

Cassian raised his drink and smiled, a joyless thing that didn’t reach his dark eyes. 

“Nice party,” he muttered. “ _Salute_. Cheers.” Downing the drink, he walked away.

John kept an eye on him until he disappeared around a corner going off to observe the statues in Santino’s vast collection. Not spending anymore time on him, John went back to scanning the room. If Cassian was here, news had travelled fast. Maybe showing up at the Continental hadn’t been such a good plan afterall. 

—

Santino found his eyes drawn away from his guests towards John more than once throughout the night. Sometimes their eyes would meet.

Santino would smile. John would nod. 

Santino sipped a glass of champagne, still staring after the man turned away while one of the museum’s patrons doled out obsequious compliments about the exhibition, the collection, the gala, everything.

“ _Grazie mille._ Thank you so much,” Santino said, turning to the patron whenever an opening was left for him. When he turned back to look, John was gone. Santino frowned, but didn’t think too much of it. He focused his attention back on the event and his many guests.

—

There had been something in the way that the waiter was looking at Santino that John recognized. He was all too familiar with that cool, focused stare.

When the waiter set down a tray of dirty glasses on top of a garbage can in the corner, John started to creep slowly towards him. Step by step he approached the man who was so focused on Santino, he didn’t even notice John at his side until it was too late. 

The waiter reached into his jacket and John grabbed him.

They both disappeared through a nearby door, stumbling into the enclosed ticket booths. They were far enough away and blinds were pulled down over the ticket windows, keeping them out of the view from the gala. 

They both tumbled down onto the floor, John wrestling himself on top of the smaller man easily.

The waiter immediately yanked his hand from his jacket revealing a gun. It didn’t go off as they struggled. Thankfully this idiot assassin hadn’t had time to flick the safety off. 

He elbowed John across the head, but John didn’t let up his grip on the gun. He used his superior position above the man to break his hold on the weapon.

With the gun in hand, John briefly considered disabling the safety and just using it. But no. He flipped the gun in his grip and used the butt of the weapon to cold-cock Santino’s would-be assassin with a single firm blow. 

John slowly got back up on his feet, standing over the waiter. The man was knocked out cold. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon, but just in case, John closed the door to the ticket booth and broke the handle as he did, locking the man inside.

It made a bit of noise, but it was well past midnight and the party was starting to die down. The entry hall was mostly filled with security and staff apart from Santino and a few small groups of guests who were just finishing up their last little bits of conversation.

Santino was moving from group to group, making sure to say goodbye to all of his guests as the gala came to a close. He was just turning from the last few people when he saw John come limping away from the ticket booths.

“John?” Santino drawled, looking the man up and down. His new suit was holding up, only a little rumpled, but his hair was completely disheveled and there was a new mark forming on his cheek and a bit of blood on his bottom lip. “What the hell happened to you?”

John took a deep breath, trying to even out his panting. “There was… an incident.”

“What?”

“I dealt with it.”

“John? Did you—”

John shook his head. “He’s out cold, locked in there. You can do whatever you want with him.”

Santino looked at the ticket booth and hummed. He looked around for Ares. When he made eye contact with her across the room, he quickly signed what John had told him, being as vague as possible in case there were any other sign readers in. 

Ares’ brow creased. She signed an apology before replying that they’d ‘deal with it’.

“Well,” Santino said as he turned back to John. “Aren’t I lucky you’re here.”

John only hummed in agreement. He was still scanning the hall, now even more wary than when they’d first arrived.

The party was at its end and Santino had already said goodbye to all his guests. There were a few stragglers, but the museum staff would see them out to close. 

“Come with me,” Santino whispered.

He ushered John through the exhibition, towards the other end of the museum.

A pair of doors slid open, welcoming them into a shimmering exhibition of light and reflection. The shifting of the mirrors around them was beautiful and eerie all at once. John immediately got the sense that anyone could be around the corner, waiting for them.

Santino, however, was in his element.

“This is my favourite exhibit.” He said. “ _I colori. La luce_. The colours. The light.”

“This wasn’t your fathers,” John stated that question as an answer.

“No, of course not. This is the work of a local artist.” 

Santino led him through to a narrow hall. 

“It is called ‘Reflections of the Soul’.”

They stopped in a red hall, lined with long narrow mirrors each framed by neon light. 

John stood at his side. His bruised cheek looked even worse in the glassy surface under the crimson light. 

“Thank you for dealing with that,” Santino said.

John paused, turning to him. 

“There will be others.”

“There have been others,” was Santino’s huff of a reply. “Have been. Will be. It’s all the same, isn’t it.”

John scanned the space before looking at him, still in protective mode. He then locked eyes with Santino and uttered:

“I won’t be there next time.”

The gala was over. The marker honored. John had done his part.

Santino stared up at him with sad green eyes. They were standing close in the narrow mirrored hall, it was so easy to lean in. 

He did just that. He kissed John, pressing the man’s lips with his own in a chaste peck. A memory of the first time he’d done so came rushing back. During a trip to Venice, John had saved him from an assassin in St. Mark’s Square. They hid the body in a gondola and rushed back to the palazzo Santino had rented to ravish each other in the heat of the moment.

Now, they were still standing apart in that red hall. Santino held his lips to John’s and he could feel the man go tense. Then, as suddenly as they’d bunched up, his muscles relaxed. He melted into Santino as if he was being pulled into that same memory. His hands came up, squeezing the Italian’s trim hips over his perfectly tailored pants. For a moment John was pulling him in, pressing their hips together. But the contact was like a trigger, as soon as John tapped it, he remembered who he was or… who he wasn’t... Santino still hadn’t quite figured out which man was which.

Gently, John pulled back. He moved Santino’s hips away with the same soft pressure he’d used to pull him in before. 

When Santino opened his eyes it was to see John Wick staring down at him. 

He wasn’t blinking, his face was utterly void.

“ _Mi dispiace_. I’m sorry,” Santino whispered against his lips.

John lifted a too gentle hand to his neck before taking a deep breath and stepping away.

“We should get back to the Continental. I think you made an impression,” he looked around. “Besides, as much as you like this exhibit, it’s a security nightmare.”

Santino let out a little laugh at that, despite the sinking feeling his heart was struggling to recover from after John pushed him away. As gentle as it had been, it still burned.

They managed to make their way out of the mirror maze in just a few minutes, getting lost only once along the shimmering path and nearly bumping into a pair of automatic doors. Santino laughed about it, but John was still scanning and every movement in the reflections was making him tense up. 

Ares was waiting for them in the lobby. With a gesture, she told them: ‘the problem’s been dealt with.’

“ _Bene_. Good,” Santino replied. “Have the driver pull the car around. We’ll head back to the Continental.” He was starving and really looking forward to partaking of the always open dining services before getting a good night’s rest.

“We can speak to the manager first thing in the morning,” Santino said on their way out. 

John frowned for a moment, a strange expression. He should be happy to have honored his marker. He was now officially done with this life.

Santino was about to comment on it when he heard the tapping of heeled shoes approaching. He and John had just reached the top of the steps when a lone woman appeared from the shadows. Dressed in black at that time of night, she was invisible until she stepped briefly beneath a streetlamp below them. 

Santino barely had time to register her arm lifting towards him before John pushed him out of the way. The man’s large hand closed around the back of his neck, shoving his head down just as the first gunshots rang out.

The tactile lining of John’s bulletproof suit absorbed much of the impact, but John was still thrown off kilter when a round hit him between the shoulders. He shoved Santino back behind the cover of one of the nearby pillars before turning on their attacker.

John ducked down, using his jacket like a riot shield. He rushed the woman and, for the second time that night, found himself grappling for a gun. This time, the stakes were high. 

She aimed at his head, but by the time she pulled the trigger he’d grabbed her hands. The shots went off right in his ear replacing their mutual grunts of exertion with a deafening pitch. She emptied her magazine with a few more missed shots and as soon as the trigger clicked, she ducked out of John’s grapple hold and twisted away.

She reached for a new mag and reloaded, but John was already on her. His elbow came down on her wrists just as she was set to cock the gun, snapping the weapon out of her grip. It skittered away and they both went for it. John landed a kick to the assassin’s chin as he dived.

She stumbled back, tumbling down the first stair. Lucky she caught herself on the second. She groaned and was about to get up to lunge for John again when she heard the distinctive click of a round filling the chamber. 

John stood above her, gun in hand.

The assassin spat out a mouthful of blood, smiling with bloody teeth. “Wasn’t expecting John Wick...” she choked out with something like a laugh. 

Apparently few had been, despite the way rumours had spread.

John stared at her, expressionless. His aim was level with the bridge of her nose. 

“High Table?” he asked.

She snorted. As if. 

“Local politics.”

“Private contract?” 

“Yeh.” 

“How much?”

“Enough,” she responded after a pause, her eyes flicking briefly over to where Santino was watching with a cold hard stare. She was purposefully vague, but ‘enough’ to attempt to kill Santino D’Antonio right outside his own museum was in the millions. John knew that.

“Can’t spend it if you’re dead,” he said. He unloaded the magazine and tucked it along with the gun into his coat. “Tell that to your boss.”

The assassin frowned. She got up and limped away from the scene.

Santino came back down the steps, looking about, holding his own gun now at his side in a tight grip. He wanted to shoot his assassin, ensure the only way she’d come back to haunt him was as a ghost. However, if John let her go, he wasn’t going to be contrary.

“I’m starting to wonder if this is the impression I wanted to make,” he muttered.

John turned to his as soon as the assassin was out of his sightline. “She said it was a private contract.” 

“Gianna?” Santino wondered. Her call last night had him on edge. It wouldn’t be a surprise if she tried to get to him before he could get to her.

“No,” John replied without hesitation. “Someone local. Albanians, Irish, Triads... a lot of people in this city aren’t going to be happy to see a new face in town.”

“Well… this clearly isn’t the first time I’ve had someone try to kill me,” Santino hissed. “A lot of people in this city can get fucked.”

John actually let out a huff. It came out of his nose and he lowered his head to hide behind the fall of his hair.

“Was that a laugh, John,” Santino drawled, pleased with himself. “Did I just make John Wick laugh?”

“Get in the car, Santino.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos splash a little bourbon in your morning latte c[xxx]  
> Your comments destroy the concept American sack suits (ps. they’re ugly)


	3. Deterrent Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! This is literally 90% smut....  
> I’m already thinking about writing a prequel set when John worked for the D’Antonios... with lots and lots of sexy mediterranean locales and sunshine <3 lol  
> For now, enjoy the finale!

—

They returned to the Continental and settled into the restaurant a little scratched up but no worse for wear. They weren’t the only ones up that late at a hotel for assassins, but John still slipped the maître d′ an extra coin for a nice dinner. 

Santino ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu and demanded John join him in finishing the entire thing. 

“This reminds me of Rome,” John said, reminiscing as he swirled his glass. 

Santino couldn’t be more pleased when John piped up with little comments like that. It reminded him that he existed somewhere in that ever moving clockwork, that memories of their time together seemed to live in a happy sentimental part of John’s mind. Those memories might have been buried deep and piled over with other stronger mementos, the wife, the car, the dog, but Santino’s burgeoning ego didn’t care. He was somewhere in there too, even if he was amongst other things.

In the companionable silence that lingered between them, John swallowed down another mouthful with a soft hum. 

“The wine was always better in Italy though.”

Santino laughed. It wasn’t completely untrue. The New York continental carried a Napa Valley selection and, while they were excellent wines, they weren’t Italian. The flavor was… different. Not bad, just different.

“I don’t mind American,” Santino purred, peering at John over the rim of his glass as he drank. It was a seductive gaze that he knew John could recognize even if the other man’s expression remained completely stoic.

With a sigh, John leaned forward, holding out his glass. 

More than a little surprised, Santino smiled.

“ _Cin cin_. Cheers,” he said as they tapped.

After all the attempted murder, the evening was actually kind of romantic.

And then Winston appeared at their table.

“Mister D’Antonio. I heard your party tonight was quite the affair,” he cheered as he came over. 

Santino looked up at him. The old man was wearing a fancy velvet robe and matching slippers with the Continental’s elaborate logo embroidered onto the top above his toes. He’d clearly just gotten out of bed, if the black silk pyjamas underneath were anything to go by. Santino came to the only logical assumption, which was that someone had told Winston they were here and he’d rushed right down.

“The gala was a great success, yes,” Santino replied icily. For whatever reason, he just knew that Winston was probably fully aware of exactly who was trying to kill him, even if it was a private contract. These Continental managers always seemed to have an ear at every door.

“And I heard Jonathan here was of great service, as always.”

John moved his head in a manner that could barely be considered a nod before taking another sip of wine.

Winston smiled at him. “Now then, with all that being over, I believe you two have a marker to settle.” He gestured towards the doors that lead further into the hotel. “I’ll be in my private sitting room, if you’d like to—”

“We’ll settle up in the morning,” John answered for them, cutting Winston off and causing both him and Santino to raise a brow.

“Indeed,” Santino agreed after a pause. He lifted his glass to John before smirking at the old man, taking a drink without breaking eye contact.

“In the morning,” Winston repeated slowly, his incredulous tone not lost on Santino. “Of course!” 

He looked between the two of them, the amicable smile on his face hiding the mental arithmetic he was performing. “Well, I won’t bother you anymore _. Qui non vult fieri desidiosus, amet._ Let the one who does not wish to be idle fall in love. Isn’t that right, Jonathan.”

John blinked, frowned, then muttered: “Sure…” while Santino simply rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and took another long drink.

“You two enjoy the rest of your stay.” With that Winston tucked his hands into the pockets of his plush robe and sauntered out of the dining hall. 

“Pretentious old bastard,” Santino hissed once Winston was out of earshot. 

John shrugged. “He’s alright.”

“Of course, you think so. All of the managers love you,” Santino teased. 

“There’s one in Marrakesh who’d rather I was dead.”

“There always has to be an exception to the rule.”

If he hadn’t been looking for it, Santino would have missed the twitch of a smile at the corner of John’s lip. Even the glimpse of it had him grinning.

“I just can’t stand how Winston treats you.” He saw how John cocked his head to one side and explained quickly. “It’s not about the special treatment you very obviously receive, it’s more of the... daddying.”

“Daddying?” John repeated the word, not even trying to pretend it didn’t make him cringe.

“Yes! What he just said there. Such a backhanded way of worrying about you. As if I am some playboy come to defile his precious, innocent boy.”

“Well…” John breathed, but he didn’t get a chance to continue.

“If I recall it was you, all those years ago, who came to me. I was waiting until my wedding night before you came along,” Santino made a show of crossing himself while John looked on.

He raised a dark brow and said simply, “Uh huh,” before finishing off his wine.

“Uh huh,” Santino mimicked. “I used to be very innocent.”

“Well, I’m sorry I ruined your innocence.”

“Don’t be,” Santino winked.

John shook his head and breathed an exasperated sigh. 

Their attraction had been so obviously mutual back then. Santino liked the strong silent type, John had a fondness for his energy and wit. They both held the belief that opposites attract, and they were living proof.

Even now, John could feel his blood rushing as their dinner arrived and they ate together just like old times. Memories of his years spent working for the D’Antonios in Italy came flooding back. He’d never cared much for the work, protection and the odd contract, but the time he’d spent in the mediterranean sun, escorting Santino to various villas and beaches, their dark world had felt brighter back then.

—

They ate quickly before dragging their feet on the way back to their rooms. Both were still high off the excitement of the night. Sleep would not come easily. 

“Santino… Do you wanna come in for a drink?” John shocked them both with that request. He bowed his head and continued, “I could go for another glass and… Helen always told me it’s unhealthy to drink alone.”

“Nurses… all sorts of crazy notions they have,” Santino teased, though he did so through a soft smile. He knew it must hurt John to think about his wife, but there was a fondness in the man’s eyes when he spoke of her, a light in the darkness. 

For the second time that day, John let out that huff. It was that sort of laugh that Santino hadn’t even heard all those years back when they were together. It was the laugh of that man who he’d never truly seen.

“Were you happy, outside this life, John?” he deigned to ask as soon as they were seated next to each other on either side of the couch with a glass of bourbon securely in hand.

“Yes. Very. But… it wasn’t all perfect.”

Santino tsk-tsked. “ _Niente è perfetto_. Nothing is perfect.”

John nodded solemnly, a movement Santino could barely see. 

“I didn’t want to be a part of this world… and there were people I knew I had to leave behind to escape it, but now that I’m back…” John stopped there, shaking his head. He wasn’t back, Santino knew he was trying to remind himself of that. “Now that I’m here, I remembered these bonds I had: Winston, Marcus, Aurelio…”

“If I am not on this list soon, the rest of his drink is going over your head.”

John rubbed his beard, hiding what Santino knew had to be a smile.

“I missed you as soon as I left.”

The admission jolted through Santino like a shock straight to the heart. He sucked in a breath.

“Did you ever regret leaving?”

“For a while at first... then...” John seemed to stop himself from bringing up Helen in that moment. He simply smiled at the memory of her. “... then no.”

Santino nodded.

“If you hadn’t left, do you think we’d end up like Gianna and Cassian?”

John huffed, running a hand through his hair. He could honestly picture it. Falling into a subservient role while Santino hardened and grew into a viciously domineering one, just like his sister. Maybe life would feel sweeter again for a while, but it would eventually grow stale. Close but distant was a hard place to stand.

“I would hope not…” John muttered. “But that does seem to be inevitable.”

Santino hummed his agreement. He inched ever so much closer, leaning precariously into John’s side. 

“Depending on the context, I would have allowed for a reversal of roles… every once in a while,” he teased. “I’d let you play the master sometimes.”

John’s eyes went dark and he turned to find the man barely a hair’s breadth away. 

“Santino…”

“You always say my name like that when you want me to stop, but you never tell me to stop,” Santino whispered. His lips were so close that their breath mingled.

“Do you want me to stop, John?” 

John didn’t reply. He simply let his eyes fall shut.

Santino took that as permission. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to John’s lips and revelling in the man’s soft intake of breath.

It had been a long time since they’d kissed like this, but they both remembered the sensation. There was a hunger that consumed them as soon as their lips brushed. It was that same carnal need that brought them together for the first time, the same intoxicating desire that drew John into his bed despite the taboo and the prohibitions written into John’s contract with his father. It had always been there, lust at first sight, Santino liked to call it. 

Santino had crawled into John’s lap by the time they broke apart, gasping for air. They were both trembling in time with the pounding of the blood running hot in their veins. John’s hands were gripping Santino’s hips. He was unable or unwilling to let go, his hold like hot iron, fingers digging into the flesh of Santino’s upper thighs.

Santino traced John’s jaw along the contours of his beard.

“You should stay,” he whispered breathlessly against the other man’s lips. “Stay with me, John. Fuck the inevitable.”

“My marker is honored,” John murmured. Still, he spoke between heated kisses, not pulling away, not this time.

“Your marker is honored,” Santino repeated.

“I won’t work for you.”

“I don’t need you to work for me.”

“I want to stay in New York.”

“And I want to take New York.”

With a hum, John pressed his forehead to Santino’s looking into his green eyes. And just like that, the charm offensive was complete. Santino knew... he knew that John wasn’t just going to sit back and watch him do this on his own. If he got shot, beaten, killed, well, John would never forgive himself. Everyone knew what he’d do for a car and a puppy, they didn’t want to see what he’d do for a lover. 

In the end, Santino didn’t need another consigliere or another fixer, all he needed was a deterrent.

Drawing away from the kiss, Santino stroked John’s cheeks, letting his fingers claw through the rough hair of the man's beard until he groaned. 

“I expect nothing,” he said hotly. “But I will always be... appreciative of your company.”

John kissed him again, craning his neck to capture Santino’s lips. 

Santino rocked against him, arching his hips against John’s, feeling how hard he was in his new suit. The night’s adrenaline mixed with a little sensory memory and alcohol had his blood set to boil.

Wrapping his arms around John’s neck, Santino whispered: “Ah, I missed this,” as he moved, rolling his body again and again. 

John’s fingers digging into his waist shifted further back, squeezing his flesh through the back of his trousers.

The chuckling stutter of Santino’s breath tickled John’s neck as he worked on the man’s tie. As the silky fabric came loose, followed by the first few buttons of the black shirt underneath, Santino pressed wet, open mouthed kisses to the man’s collarbone and throat before sinking to his knees. 

As John watched Santino go down, his arms spread over the back of the couch. He just stared, almost curious. His face was void, but his eyes were burning.

The sound of his zip coming down had John closing his eyes. His head fell back against the couch, his neck arching. If his eyes had been open, Santino knew they’d be rolled back, overwhelmed by the pleasure.

Santino wrapped his hand around the length of John’s cock, stroking just once before slicking the movement by sliding his tongue long and slow from base to tip. The sound of John sucking in a breath made him groan, the sound erupting from him loudly as he pressed the flat of his tongue to the man’s tip before swallowing him down. He could feel his mouth watering around John’s cock. God... he was such a slut for this, but John never seemed to mind.

Visibly struggling not to thrust hard and deep into the wet suction of Santino’s mouth, John gripped the back of the couch. His fingers dug into the fabric, close to tearing as Santino went down on him. Again and again he took John in, letting him slip from his lips until just the tip remained before sinking back into him again.

Santino reached up and began unbuttoning John’s shirt with one hand. Tugging and pulling, he didn’t care that it was a new suit as black buttons pinged away, rattling the floor when he forgot to be gentle. He pressed his nose to John’s abdomen as soon as the man’s torso was stripped bare. He stroked John’s stomach, letting his fingers dip between the soft muscle. 

He loved feeling that deep angle just above John’s pelvis. His body shuddered so delightfully there, unable to hide the sensations Santino was drawing from him with every movement of his tongue around the curve of his cock.

John hissed when Santino reached down, sliding fingers over his balls, teasing them. His hands slipped from the back of the couch then, landing on Santino’s head. He didn’t push or pull. He simply carded his fingers through Santino’s dark, asymmetrical curls, distracting himself from the pleasure that was becoming too much to take. 

Santino moaned around his girth. He didn’t usually like his lovers playing with his hair, but again, with John he’d always made an exception.

Suddenly, the fingers in his hair grew tight, and yes, Santino grunted his hips canting forward for a moment because he loved it when John pulled his hair. 

John was pulling his head back, drawing Santino off his cock. A thin line of slick connected the tip to Santino’s mouth for a moment, before the man licked his bottom lip, breaking the string as he gazed up at John with sinfully hooded eyes.

“You’re too good at that,” John panted.

Santino could only smile as he thumbed a wet streak from the corner of his mouth.

John stood suddenly then, lifting them both up and away from the couch, hoisting Santino to his feet. Santino stumbled, but the press of John’s steady form didn’t allow him to fall. The man was solid, a marble statue to rival those in his collection.

They moved towards the bed as Santino tugged off John’s jacket and shirt. The tactical fabric fell to the floor with a heavy thud. 

Dipping away from a kiss, John sat on the edge of the bed. He stared up at Santino, his eyes pitch black.

“Take off your clothes.”

Santino opened his mouth, feigning shock when honestly, he and modesty never really got along. 

“You want me to go slow?” He asked, raising a brow. His fingers slipped around the buttons of his vest, carefully undoing them one at a time. He’d ripped open John’s shirt, sure, but his own clothes were much more expensive. 

John watched him strip with ravenous eyes. He clearly wanted to tear Santino’s clothes off too, but Santino knew he enjoyed being teased. So few things changed over the years and a three piece suit had always been perfect for such occasions.

The jacket slipped away first. Then the vest. Santino worked on the trousers next, slowly tooth by tooth pulling down the zip. He kicked them away, standing before John in his shirt, boxer briefs and long socks.

“I’m surprised you don’t wear garters,” John murmured, eyeing his legs.

“I’m not nearly so old fashioned,” Santino chuckled in reply. He toed off his socks before going back to the buttons on his shirt.

John leaned back as Santino came closer. By the time his shirt hung open around the lean line of his torso, Santino was standing between the spread of John’s legs. They were both quite a sight to see, Santino with his shirt loose around him, his underwear bulging towards John who leaned back on his elbows, his cock arching and heavy between his legs.

Santino sucked his bottom lip. 

“I missed seeing you like this,” he admitted breathily.

“Like what?”

Santino smirked.

“Vulnerable.”

John could only groan as the man slipped out of his underwear and climbed into his lap. It had been nearly a decade, but their bodies still remembered each other so well. His hands immediately slid along Santino’s sides, tracing the curve beneath his ribcage down to his hips and the hardness hanging between his legs.

Santino gave a full body shudder when John first touched him. He rocked forward, their cocks moving against each other as he leaned over John’s prone form. Their lips met, but they were hardly kissing. Santino’s panting breaths tickled John’s lips.

“Will you get me ready?” He whispered as he mouthed along the edge of John’s beard to press kisses to his ear.

John sat them both up as soon as Santino asked the question. He held Santino close in his lap, pressing his mouth to the man’s neck and inhaling with a deep groan before he moved away. 

Santino had to suppress a little laugh. He bit his lip as he watched John lean away, reaching over into one of the side drawers. The Continental had extremely good foresight to keep their rooms fully stocked for their guests’ pleasure as any hotel with a secret assassin nightclub in the basement would take care to do.

John returned to Santino wrapping around him with the same relish as before, mouthing Santino’s neck and caressing his sides before slick fingers trailed down the arrow of his tailbone, following that path to spread his flesh and dip between his cheeks.

Santino bit back a moan, letting the noise pitch in his throat. He canted his hips forward, rocking his cock against John’s while the man traced the pad of one wet finger over his hole. He shivered when it slipped inside, pressing slick and easy inside him. He had to admit, the burn wasn’t all pleasure. He wouldn’t ever tell John, but it had been a while. 

Over and over John dipped into Santino, moving in him with the same attention to detail he had when cleaning a well used gun, pressing and stretching until Santino was open enough for a second finger and soon after a third. The lubricated push and pull of his long digits had Santino gripping his shoulders, holding on as if he were about to sink into an abyss and John was the only thing keeping him afloat.

He moaned into John’s ear and let his nails claw across the man’s tattooed back. John’s fingers fucked him so well, Santino could barely catch his breath between each plunge. He traced old scars, mouthing wet kisses along John’s shoulder until he felt the man’s fingers slide away, leaving him slick, open and ready.

Feeling the heat of John’s breath turned towards his neck, Santino pulled back and met the man’s questioning gaze.

“Santino…”

That was all John got out before he found himself pushed down onto the mattress. He lay on his back, staring up at Santino. The younger man was hovering over his hips. Sitting up on his knees, the negative space between his legs perfectly framed John’s aching cock.

“Tell me, John. Did you have any other men after you left me?” he asked smoothly.

Closing his eyes, John shook his head. No.

“Good. I like that.”

Santino sank slowly down onto John’s cock, taking him in with one smooth glide. Pleasure filled him. He could feel John’s hands flexing on his hips, squeezing the fleshy place above the bone but doing his best not to pull Santino down harder onto him. 

Santino let out a shuddering breath, reveling in the control he had over the man as he started to ride John. He set an easy rocking pace, rolling his hips slowly, getting used to the sensation of John inside him. God, it really had been a long time. He needed a minute to adjust to John’s girth.

John was calm and patient on the exterior, but when Santino pressed his hands to the man’s abdomen for balance, he could feel each breath shuddering through him. It had to be a huge amount of effort for him not to just thrust up, or spin them around so he could fuck Santino hard into the mattress.

The sensation of being so completely full had Santino moaning at the height of every thrust. Each time he sank downward, a soft exhale left him. He could feel the buckle of John’s belt and the fabric of his trousers tickling just beneath his thighs. The fact that the man hadn’t bother to take them off was perfectly erotic.

Santino was panting hard, his hips canting on repeat until, suddenly, he stopped. He sat still in John’s lap, hands pressed to the man’s chest while he tried to catch his breath. His hair was a tangled mess and sweat was dripping down his temples. 

With a sharp inhale, he opened his eyes, staring right into John’s ravenous gaze.

“What are you waiting for?”

John flipped them down onto the bed, pressing Santino down forcefully into the soft sheets below. His hands covered the smaller man’s shoulders almost completely. In the moment, John’s cock had slipped free. When he touched the tip to Santino’s hole and slipped back inside, the long slide all the way in was undeniably euphoric.

“Yes…” Santino hissed, arching up beneath him. He opened his eyes, staring, cold and demanding up at the animal of a man above him. 

“Fuck me, John Wick.”

John didn’t need to be asked twice. His hips rolled, body moving like a wave as he drove forward into the man beneath him. The motion of every thrust rippled along his back. He held his body over Santino’s staring down at the younger man slotted so perfectly under him. 

Santino arched back, pressing his head into the pillows. He reached up and dragged his fingers across John’s shoulders, drawing red lines over his tattoos. The man’s rhythm was tempered and consistent, but every plunge sunk in hard and deep. That even tempo hit a bundle of nerves deep inside Santino over and over until his blood was boiling, pounding hot in his ears.

Even as John’s thrusts sped up, time seemed to slow for Santino. His cock was trapped between their stomachs, twitching from the friction of John’s every move. Heat flooded his veins, pooling low between his legs. The pleasure had him melting at first, before a fire sparked and raged through him.

He came, suddenly, violently, gasping, legs shuddering, trying to grip John’s hips. He pulled the larger man in closer, wanting to feel it until the very end of this little death. 

John’s steady, focused thrusts were becoming chaotic. His movements were erratic, rocking the bed, sending the frame shuddering against the wall. As the pulsating, wet heat of Santino’s body engulfed him at the moment of climax, he pounded in deep. When he tensed and stilled, joining Santino in sensual bliss, it was with a low groan and one final grind that buried his cock deep.

In the aftermath, Santino ran his hands over John’s scarred torso, wet with the remnants of his orgasm. He couldn’t stop himself from moaning deep with every twitch and shift of John inside him. This was fucking heaven, just like he remembered.

Shaking, John all but fell over him. His arms had collapsed and he was barely holding himself up with his elbows pressed into the bed near Santino’s shoulders. 

Santino’s eyes were closed in the blissful aftermath. He could feel John’s long hair tickling his cheeks. When he opened his eyes, the man was hovering above him, their bodies fully aligned and still connected.

They stared at one another until their faces slowly, almost automatically, grew closer. They kissed, their lips brushing. It was gentle and sweet, so very far removed from the frenzy of their love making.

With a groan, John picked himself up and finally kicked off his trousers. They were a mess now, probably ruined. Then again, the dry cleaning services were fairly good at the Continental. They’d gotten enough blood out more than once, this would be a cake walk.

The press of a hand against his cheek drew John out of his thoughts.

“Where have you gone?” Santino wondered in a teasing tone.

John looked over at him, his brow creasing ever so slightly. He leaned into Santino, pressing another kiss to his lips. It was meant to be a chaste sweet thing, but Santino deepened it, thrusting his tongue between John’s lips in an imitation of what they’d just had.

“This is just the beginning, John,” Santino whispered as they broke away for a breath. He hummed contented and traced his lips along the man’s bearded jawline. “Just the beginning.”

John lay back, feeling utterly satisfied and yet there was a sensation building in his gut. He’d thought he was out. But this wasn’t the end. It wasn’t even a new beginning. They were just starting from the place they’d left off a decade ago and moving forward from there.

He couldn’t think of anything to say in response as Santino’s kisses became more persistent. Still young, John had to remind himself, Santino rolled on top of him, set to go again.

A single phrase finally came to mind. Latin. It had to be something Winston had once said. John found himself whispering it: 

“ _Contra mundum._ Against the world.”

“That’s right.” Satisfied with that, Santino leaned forward and pressed a slow, seductive kiss to John’s lips. 

“You and I,” he agreed. “ _Contra mensa._ Against the table.”

Now there was a thought. For another time maybe...

Like Santino had said, this was just the beginning.

The whole world was about to come at them, but they would be ready for it.

  
_— FINE —_ _  
_ _— END_ —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos would kill for Santino ;)  
> Your comments would die for him <3


End file.
